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About Pecs

So, findin’ a prostitute? Man, it’s a hunt. Not like trackin’ rare deep-sea anglers, tho. Those girls are out there, scales shinin’ in neon—red lights, tight skirts. I’ve heard tales, y’know, from old dock workers. Back in ‘98, some chick in Marseille—called her “La Sirène.” Fishermen swore she’d lure ‘em in, voice like a damn siren. Took their cash, left ‘em broke and smilin’. True story—or so they say. *Wheeze.* Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ how dumbasses fall for it.

Allegra, a rosszlány:)

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s work. Ugh, the joys of being a technical writer. They need me to fix some document. I’m like, “Can’t a guy enjoy his pastry in peace?” But I pull out my laptop anyway. I’m sitting there, typing away, and I swear, the ducks are judging me.

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